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According to the family history, the club started when my great grandfather and a friend by the name of Anthony Romano both joined forces. A country rat from Nebraska and a city rat mafia wannabe thug. An unholy alliance. Together, both men worked hard to make a name for themselves. The Romano Family, known in New York City and respected not only for their charitable contributions but because of who they really were. Mafia. As for my family, well, great grand dad took a different approach and with his money and created a business that has now spanned generations. But the one thing granddad did was stay true to himself. When he wasn’t working to make money, he was riding and creating a brotherhood of unique individuals with one goal in mind.
Live free and die hard.
The brothers of the Soulless Sinners M.C. were unique, hardworking, heartless men that didn’t give a damn who they had to kill to get what they wanted. And believe me, they shed blood many times in that club. The brothers were savvy businessmen by day and ruthless killers by night. They worked hard and partied harder.
Then everything changed when mom badgered and threatened to divorce Dad if he didn’t step down as President of the M.C. According to her, she refused to spend her golden years in and out of court bailing dad out of jail or worse, stand over his grave.
Yeah, one thing about mom, she always got what she wanted.
Now, safely ensconced in his office on the top floor of his building, dad toiled his day away with paperwork and mundane board meetings. From what I knew, he still regularly showed up at the clubhouse and often rode with the club during charity runs. But when it came to the day to day running of the club, that now fell on my brother Montana’s shoulders, and that’s when shit changed and I fucking left.
I had two other brothers. The second oldest, Arizona, who, like Montana, was a branded member of the Soulless Sinners but lived in Southern Georgia. No one really knew what Arizona did. All the family knew was that once a month, Arizona would make a sizable deposit into the Soulless Sinners account, thereby reaffirming his allegiance to the family.
Next was my brother, Dakota.
Now that motherfucker was something else. Right out of high school, Dakota accepted the brand but kicked off for the Army. After doing several tours in Iraq, then Afghanistan, the military discharged Dakota, and he returned home a soulless entity of his former self. The family knew right away that whatever Dakota went through changed him. The funny, laid-back brother I once loved was now closed off, quick to rile and extremely lethal. So, when he took off, none of us said shit. Where that crazy fuck was, was anybody’s guess.
Like me, Dakota never gave monthly to the Soulless Sinners. Yeah, I still technically wore the brand on my back, but I flat out refused to give money to a club that I wasn’t part of on the daily. As for Dakota, I heard he told Montana that if he wanted the fucking club dues, he could come take it from his cold dead hands.
As far as I knew, Montana still hadn’t received shit from Dakota.
I hadn’t been home in years and it bugged the fuck out of me that Montana could still call and demand I do whatever he wanted. I would have told him to go fuck himself, but he threw that family marker at me. No matter what it was, I was bound by family loyalty. Pounded and branded into me since before I could walk, I knew one thing… family first.
Blood, Brand, Brothers.
I guessed Montana knew I wouldn’t refuse because he didn’t think twice before laying down the law. Motherfucker. The only thing that made this deal easy to swallow was knowing that he would never fucking call me again.
Once fulfilled, I was free.
I spent the last twenty years of my life trying to forget my roots, and one fucking phone call brought it all back. Not even the shit my club endured five years ago could erase the truth of who I really was. I was Kansas Stone, branded blood brother of the Soulless Sinners M.C.
I saw Pence walking over as I tightened a lug nut on the bike I was working on. Getting to my feet, I reached over to grab my pack of smokes off my tool bench, then lit one. “What?”
“Justin called. Saw two unwanted visitors escorting a black SUV and an ambulance through town. Headed our way.”
A fucking ambulance?
What the fuck?
Shit. I didn’t know what Montana was playing at, but I would soon because they would be here in ten minutes. Though the Diamondback clubhouse was in Lawton, our place was more situated closer to the county line. Reaching for a grease rag, I rubbed my hands clean, then reached for my cut. Putting it on, I walked out of the garage and stretched.
Fuck, I was getting too damn old to be bending over vehicles like that.
“Where are the rest of the brothers?”
“Monk, Trigger and Ashe are inside. The rest are out with their day jobs.”
“Widow?”
“He hasn’t checked in yet.”
“Call Angel and Blackjack and tell them to find that fucker and sit on him. Don’t need him showing up unannounced while the visitors are here. And tell the brothers in the clubhouse to stay put. I will handle this.”
Pence rushed off with his phone to his ear as I heard pipes off in the distance. Steeling myself for whatever my brother wanted, I took my time heading towards the clubhouse as two black leather clad riders from head to toe rolled through the gates, followed by an ambulance and a black SUV.
Seeing me standing in the open, the bikers rolled their bikes right over to me and stopped. Saying nothing, I watched as each rider cut their engines before taking off their full helmets, letting me see two men I hadn’t seen since I was eighteen years old.
“Kansas.”
